


Unfortunate

by Joodiff



Series: All Joodiff's Adult WtD Fic [20]
Category: Waking the Dead (TV)
Genre: Adult Content, F/M, Oral Sex, Party, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-09
Updated: 2017-06-09
Packaged: 2018-11-11 14:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11150457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Joodiff/pseuds/Joodiff
Summary: Set post-"A Simple Sacrifice". After Boyd is stabbed by Reece Dickson, Grace decides that team morale could do with a boost. But then she gets drunk, he gets drunk, and...Adult content - don't like, don't read.





	Unfortunate

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Geminied](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Geminied).



**DISCLAIMER:** I own nothing.

_Happy birthday to Geminied, June 2017._

* * *

**Unfortunate**

by Joodiff

* * *

A team building exercise, that’s what she’d said when she’d first proposed her plan to Boyd, her expression and tone both deadpan. A legitimate team building exercise designed to strengthen bonds and boost morale, and not, by any stretch of the imagination, a fun, frivolous summer garden party. No. Most definitely _not_.

It’s a party. She knows it, _he_ knows it, and everyone else here knows it, too. Why else would she have warned the neighbours in advance, and why else would there be music, and food and drink in abundance?

She’s always done this sort of thing, Grace reflects, casting a pleased, proprietorial eye over the proceedings from the cool sanctuary of the small concrete patio outside the kitchen, the one that’s shaded on summer evenings like this by the bulk of the house itself. Has never really believed in the absurd notion that one’s home should remain a sacrosanct place, inviolable, and forever unvisited by work colleagues. Has never really believed, either, in over-observing the kind of social and professional boundaries that so often lead to stern criticism of convivial, informal gatherings like this one. Better, she’s always felt, to trust in people’s judgement and common sense unless or until it’s proved an unwise decision.

So, a party, then. Not a riotous affair, of course, for many reasons, including the sensitivities of the people who live either side of her, but that doesn’t seem to matter. People – almost the unit’s entire roster including a couple of Frankie’s lab technicians and all of the CCU’s few civilian staff – and in some cases their partners, are eagerly eating and drinking and conversing, and silently observing it, she feels a deep, calm, if slightly inebriated, sense of satisfaction. There’s a considerable amount of laughing, joking and good-natured bantering going on, too, and that’s a very good thing after recent events, she feels. It wasn’t that long ago, after all, that they were all left stunned by a serious and unexpected assault on their tough, no-nonsense commanding officer. Stabbed twice in that eerily-lit cellar with no-one there to rush to his aid.

He looks okay now, she thinks, her eyes actively seeking him out amongst the enthusiastic group of people – mainly men – clustered around the large metal barbeque she borrowed from a friend of a friend just for the occasion. It’s fascinating the way naked flames, and especially the novelty of cooking directly over them _al fresco_ , seem to attract the male of the species. She’s always thought so. Perhaps there’s something about the elemental nature of fire that appeals to some primitive caveman area of their brains. Or perhaps her infuriating mother was right all along, and little boys never really grow up – they just get bigger.

 _He’s_ pretty big, Grace reflects, still gazing at him as she sips her drink. Peter Boyd. Tall, anyway. Six foot or thereabouts, and carries it off with a startling presence that often makes him seem even bigger and taller. Enticingly broad shoulders, too. Shoulders that remind her of an amiable but rather dim-witted prop forward she knew – both briefly and biblically – as an undergraduate. Of course, those impressive shoulders weren’t actually the very _first_ thing she noticed about the then DCI Boyd when they were originally introduced at New Scotland Yard several years ago. Not quite, anyway. Fairly high on the list, if she’s completely honest, along with his striking dark eyes, but…

For no apparent reason, it seems, he glances her way. Catches her watching him. Doesn’t look away. Smiles, instead. Slow and easy, and just a little bit knowing, as if he’s more aware of what she’s thinking than he damn well should be. It might be the alcohol, or it might just be a dash of childish pride, but Grace refuses to break eye contact. Holds his gaze instead, arching one not-quite-flirtatious eyebrow at him. The smile becomes a far too tempting grin, and then someone speaks to him, he turns a fraction, and the oddly intimate moment is lost. It doesn’t matter. Probably for the best, in fact. She’s had far too much to drink to be dwelling on him in such a manner today. Too risky.

Handsome man, though. Oh, yes. Yes, indeed.

“Doctor Foley?” a quiet, respectful male voice says, and she turns her head to discover the very young and more-than-slightly nervous PC David Erskine hovering just a couple of feet away from her elbow. He only seems to own one suit, it’s been noted since his recent arrival in the unit, a cheap, not very flattering grey affair that doesn’t fit him very well. He’d be teased about it considerably more – though not exactly unkindly – if he didn’t, for some unknown reason, have Boyd’s favour. Today he is not wearing his suit. Today, like everyone else, he is casually dressed. But still looks far, far too young and fresh-faced to be a serving police officer, let alone one currently assigned to a controversial and highly specialised unit.

“David,” she says, pretending to roll her eyes, “I’ve told you, _no-one_ calls me ‘Doctor Foley’ in my own home. While you’re here, you call me _Grace_.”

The terrifying notion seems to confuse him. As if it makes about as much sense to him as walking over to his formidable Superintendent, putting a friendly arm around his – broad – shoulders and addressing him as _Peter_.

“Ah,” he stammers, and manages to avoid calling her anything at all by blurting out, “the Sergeant sent me to see if there was any more ice…? Someone knocked over the bucket with the beers in it and – ”

“Stop,” Grace instructs, holding up a hand. “Take a deep breath. Relax. Now, try again.”

“Is there any more ice… ma’am?”

He just can’t do it, she thinks, amused but hiding it well. One day he wants to be a fully-fledged detective, that’s what she’s heard, and she suspects he’ll achieve it, too, given how diligent and hard-working he is. Gauche, though. Needs a few more years of experience under his belt. And maybe the odd stern lecture or two from his commanding officer. Getting to her feet, she says, “I’ll go and have a look for you. Go and tell Spencer that if there is, I’ll bring it out – and to do his own damn dirty work next time.”

“Um,” he says, backing away. “Thank you, er…”

Watching him flee, Grace shakes her head. Waifs and strays. Sometimes it feels as if their unit is full of them. Boyd has his own rather idiosyncratic method for choosing who works for him. It’s not enough just to be the brightest and best. Ideally, there has to be something else, something extra that catches his attention. Something he sees or senses that he knows he can mould and exploit, or harness and direct. She can’t imagine that _anyone_ thought that David Erskine would successfully secure a position in the CCU, but he has, and thus far no-one’s had any cause to question Boyd’s judgement. Not that many would dare, in any case.

It’s much cooler in the little kitchen than it is out in the garden. No real surprise. The house is old and solidly built, stays cool in the summer and relatively warm in the winter. She’s occupied it for nineteen years, and can’t think of a single good reason to look for anywhere else in the capital to live. True, it’s a little large now that Tom’s… gone… and her step-children are so rarely home from university, but the change has been so gradual that she hasn’t really noticed the way she’s inexorably gained more and more space for herself.

Nine years, she thinks, pausing at the fridge to refill her glass with the Pimm’s carefully stashed there, well away from covetous eyes and thieving hands. Nine years alone. _Mainly_ alone. It’s a long, long time.

Love at first sight. That’s what Tom used to say. He fell in love with her the moment they first met. Romantic nonsense, of course. A good man, though. Widower, two small children. She loved him. Not with the blazing passion of her teens and twenties, certainly, but she did love him. Missed him terribly in the wake of the serious road accident that killed him. Still misses him now, but without the same bite, the same agony of loss.

 _Lust_ at first sight. That Grace understands. Meeting someone for the first time and knowing, just _knowing_ , that sparks would fly if…

 _If_.

One of the saddest, most frustrating words in the English language.

Peter Boyd. No-one else in the unit wears that distinctive, spicy cologne.

She turns rapidly, guiltily, and there he is, almost right behind her, eyebrows raised as he inquires, “Did I make you jump?”

“No,” she says. They both know it’s a lie. “What are you after?”

The self-effacing grin is quick and cheeky. Shouldn’t work at his age, but does. “Little boys’ room. Rather too much beer.”

“Upstairs,” she tells him, “first on the left.”

“Pimm’s,” he says, tutting his disapproval at the bottle in her hand. “If I’d known…”

“Hostess only,” she tells him. Damn, but he looks good in his fawn-coloured light summer trousers and his loose cream shirt. So very different from –

“Problem?” he asks, regarding her with mild curiosity.

Disconcerted, Grace shakes her head over-enthusiastically. The alcohol in her bloodstream protests, leaving her slightly giddy. “No. Not at all.”

“You were staring.”

She could deny it, of course, but there’s no point. Doesn’t feel like bothering anyway. She shrugs, “Maybe just a little.”

She expects him to tease her for the admission. He doesn’t. “Upstairs?”

“First on the left,” Grace confirms.

Deep, enigmatic eyes study her for a moment longer. “What’s second on the left?”

“Eh?”

Boyd smirks at her. “First on the left implies that there’s more than one door, Grace. What’s _second_ on the left? Your bedroom?”

Outrageous. Disconcerting. Interesting. Refusing to let how flustered she suddenly is show, she counters with a haughty, “Do feel free to investigate, Detective Superintendent. If you’re really _that_ interested.”

It’s got to be the alcohol, of course. _Got_ to be.

Again, he smiles, and then he turns and walks away, heading towards the hall and the stairs. She watches him until he’s out of sight, not daring to ask herself why her pulse seems to be racing.

Attractive man. _Dangerous_ attractive man.

Far too fiery and unpredictable, Grace thinks, turning back towards the fridge to put the bottle of Pimms’ away before searching the freezer compartment for ice. She’s heard all the stories, seen enough glimpses of his quick, volatile temper for herself. Good detective. Intelligent and tenacious. Not such a good husband and father, by all accounts. Not good at the kind of compromises that are required to keep decent long-lasting relationships alive.

 _Ice_. Ice for Spencer. Ice and fire.

Go back outside, she tells herself. Go and see what they’re doing to Caroline’s barbeque. Have a chat with Mel and Frankie. Tease poor Erskine a little more. _Don’t_ go upstairs.

She puts down her glass and goes upstairs.

Quiet and light-footed, she hears the flush of the toilet and then the basin tap running as she reaches the landing. From the wall, her maternal grandmother stares at her disapprovingly, her impressive scowl framed by dark bakelite that’s become increasingly brittle over the years.

The bathroom door opens before she can retreat. Boyd stops short in the doorway, surveys her with quizzical interest that becomes a fraction more predatory as she deliberately raises her eyebrows at him.

She wonders which of them has had the most to drink. Decides it doesn’t matter. He kisses her before she can say a word. Just steps forward, puts his hands on her waist, eases her back against the landing wall and kisses her. No questions, no explanations, no excuses. It doesn’t cross Grace’s mind not to respond, not to open her mouth and tangle her tongue hotly with his. It’s Saturday, and he hasn’t shaved. The rasp of heavy stubble against her skin is rougher and much more exciting than she expects. Maybe it’s all the fault of the Pimm’s.

It’s a terrible idea, of course. The whole drunk kissing thing.

Kissing. Him. Upstairs in her house, with all of their colleagues just outside in the garden.

He’s very good at it.

So’s she.

One purposeful hand moves from her waist up to her ribs and lingers there, testing boundaries. She puts her arms around his neck in return. A silent but unambiguous statement. It’s an old, old dance with familiar moves, even if the dancing partner is new. The kiss-that-shouldn’t-be goes on. Deep, thorough, and very, very potent. Boyd’s hand moves higher, his thumb tracking a slow, knowing path across the nipple that stiffens under its deliberate caress. She moans into his mouth. Can’t stop herself. Doesn’t _want_ to stop herself. The alcohol is singing in her blood, and the unexpected collision of half-acknowledged fantasy and sudden fierce reality is just too powerful, too tempting.

Biting his lower lip as she pulls out of the long, determined kiss, Grace looks up at him. The intense dark eyes that gaze back at her are lit with an odd mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. Excitement and passion show there, too, and all sorts of other things she’s never seen in him before. Need and greed very clear amongst them. A light skittering sensation in the pit of her stomach catches her by surprise. Butterflies, at her age? Ridiculous.

She wants him. Urgently, and right now.

If they were sober…

They’re not. Nor – thank the Lord – are they exactly rolling-in-the-aisles drunk.

“It’s the first on the right,” she all-but whispers to him, still staring half-hypnotised into his eyes. The location of her bedroom.

And then they’re kissing again, and this time Grace is even more keenly aware of his heat, his strength, his irrefutable maleness. It delights her; arouses her, too. She presses against him, one hand moving up to tangle its fingers in his hair, the other slipping down the long length of his back and swerving round to his waist. She doesn’t expect the sudden kiss-muffled yelp, or the way Boyd’s entire body goes absolutely rigid for a single second. Confused and startled, she pulls away just enough to look up at him again, asking silent questions.

“Sorry,” he apologises, and his voice sounds much deeper and huskier than she’s ever heard it. “War wounds.”

Damn. Of course. Mortified, she gabbles, “God… sorry, sorry. I completely forgot. Does it hurt?”

“Sore,” he admits. A quick grin and an endearing sideways tilt of the head accompanies, “It’s fine.”

It’s the right moment to turn and walk away, honour satisfied.

“Show me,” she orders. Surprising herself, she seizes hold of a tight fistful of Boyd’s shirt and sidesteps away from him, all-but towing him in her wake as she moves to the nearby door and opens it with her other hand. She couldn’t move him if he was offering any resistance, she knows that – he’s far too big and heavy – but he suddenly seems to have become uncharacteristically obedient. At least, rather than attempting to free himself from her grasp, he follows her into the bedroom without a single word of caution or complaint. Any notion that he might be feeling in any way coerced is rather dispelled by the way he toes the door shut behind them and grabs her waist again. Pulled back into another relentless kiss that does nothing to encourage common-sense to reassert itself, Grace fumbles blindly with his shirt buttons, possessed by a sudden need to feel his bare skin under her palms.

It’s a bit like being a drunk, reckless student again. But with far more confidence and experience. Same hormone-addled thoughts, same rush of adrenaline, however.

Smooth. His skin is very smooth. Warm, too. Hot, almost. But it’s a dry, summer heat. Vibrant and healthy. Fingers splayed against his bare chest, Grace is bold enough to use the other hand to push the thin shirt away from his shoulder, to move her mouth there, to deliberately flick her tongue against him again and again just to taste the afternoon saltiness she finds. Boyd makes a throaty noise that’s somewhere between a growl and a low moan, and brings his superior strength to bear, turning them to press her up against the closed bedroom door as he nips at her neck.

He’s featured in the occasional dreams she’s had about this sort of thing. More than once.

Though in her dreams neither of them needed alcohol to lower their inhibitions first.

Irrelevant.

He’s hard, and getting harder. She can feel it against her stomach. Exciting. Flattering, too. She returns to the joyful task of parting him from his shirt. Measures her success by the increased amount of bare flesh on display. The garment slithers to the floor, ignored by them both. He interrupts her fun, though, catches her by surprise as he stoops low enough to lift her. She squeaks – a surprised and undignified noise – then laughs, delighted by his impulsivity, his careless strength. It does things for her, and a great many of them are extremely and pleasantly physical rather than in any way cerebral.

Close to his ear, she murmurs a delighted, “Naughty, _naughty_ boy…”

“Always,” he confirms, and nips her ear as if to prove the point. “I’m well-known for it.”

“Is that so?”

“Mmhmm.”

Two strides, three, and they’re at the big, comfortable double bed that dominates the room. Grace expects him to set her down gently. He doesn’t. He drops her unceremoniously – but accurately – onto the soft mattress and follows her down in a dive that causes the bedsprings to protest loudly. They’re both drunk enough to find it absurdly funny, and they grin openly at each other in amusement and anticipation. Boyd shifts position, kneeling up to display his bare torso as he declares, “Here… and here.”

 _Show me_ , she’d demanded. And now he is. The still-raised scars are new, an angry red against the far paler surrounding skin. Better and worse than she expected. She can see the small red dots where the stitches were.

He could have died. But, thank all the powers, he didn’t.

Grace traces one scar then the other with just the tip of her index finger, the touch so light it visibly makes him shiver.

He unfastens his belt before she can, the well-worn leather slipping free from the heavy buckle with a metallic jangle. He watches her with unblinking fascination as she reaches out to undo his button and zip, but before she can claim the prize within Boyd pounces on her again. Nothing about his speed or his agility surprises her. Nor does the impatient but apparently effortless way he deals with the clothes between him and what he wants. Cotton and lace fall before him, leaving her exposed but far from vulnerable. His mouth is quick and urgent, every bit as dextrous as the artful hands that glide and swoop over her. Neck, breasts, stomach… he claims them all with equal fervour. And then heads lower, removing the very last garments daring to defy him.

This time she yelps in surprise. Not much more dignified than squeaking, but Grace is a long way past caring.

He’s so… direct.

There’s a certain measure of finesse involved, too, as she very quickly discovers. Audacious _and_ talented, it seems, as she shudders under every delightful movement of his clever fingers, every long, deliberate stroke of his tongue. Shudders, twists her fingers into his hair, and whispers the kind of words she knows damn well he’s never heard from her before. Her keen response only seems to encourage him into further wickedness. _Good_.

Whether it’s him, the alcohol, or her own rollercoaster of lascivious thoughts, Grace really isn’t sure, but she’s soon spiralling towards the point where the aching need to have him deep, deep inside her becomes an all-consuming desperation that won’t be satisfied by anything else. She’s almost ready to beg for it when Boyd abruptly disengages and settles back on his haunches, still positioned between her legs. Inwardly cursing the day he was born, she scowls at him, not bothering to hide her very real annoyance, her sudden intense frustration. And damn the wretched man if he doesn’t simply lick his lips and smirk back at her before sucking the wetness from fingers that gleam in the very last dying rays of the day’s sunshine making it through the bedroom window.

It’s too much. Really. Grace can’t stop the moan that breaks past the tattered remnants of her self-control, nor the way her body snaps up into a sitting position as if spring-loaded.

To her lasting satisfaction, Boyd is clearly startled by the deft swiftness with which she frees his cock from the pristine grey trunks visible beneath his gaping zip. Unconstrained, it rears hot and hard into her hand, the lightest of squeezes making it jerk eagerly, soliciting more. Something – pride or defiance – makes her stare straight into his eyes as she works him, slow and tight. They seem to glow in the fading sunlight, showing an array of muted colours she’s never noticed before. Green and gold, disappearing the moment he moves his head. Wild eyes full of secret promises and half-hidden desires. She leans forward the last inch or two, kisses him with a gentle sensuality not matched by the concentrated motion of her hand.

He growls. She draws back from the kiss and grins, triumphant, but doesn’t release him.

“You want me,” she says with a smirk, “don’t you? You really, _really_ want me.”

A fractional movement of his head is all it takes for his eyes to take on that eerie, feral glow again. “Yes. Every bit as much as _you_ want _me_ , Grace.”

“Touché,” she concedes. Releasing her grip on his cock, she gives him an imperious look. “Well…?”

Boyd edges back enough to stand up next to the bed. Looking down at her, he says, “I don’t fuck on command.”

“Don’t you?” she challenges, not sure how he will react. Not sure how she _wants_ him to react. She raises a single eyebrow. “What about on request?”

He laughs at that. Throws back his head and laughs without any guile or artifice. “It has been known.”

As he strips the remainders of his clothes, Grace lets her gaze rake up and down the long length of his body, studying every line and curve. The wide shoulders and broad chest, the gently curved abdomen, the strong thighs. The solid, jutting cock and heavy balls. A perfect mental snapshot to return to whenever it suits her.

Boyd lands heavily next to her on the mattress again, takes hold of her and rolls onto his back, guiding her above him. It surprises her, but the time for words is over. Astride him, she splays both hands out on his chest, stares down into the fascinating eyes that now appear impenetrably dark. He stares back, not saying a single word. So be it. Reaching for his cock again, she teases him for only a moment before raising up and positioning herself. Locking her gaze to his, she settles gradually and deliberately, taking him into her inch by steady inch and savouring every moment of it.

He’s big and she’s tight, but she’s slick, too, and the slow stretch to accommodate him is a perfect pleasure all on its own. One to be relished, not rushed. If it’s good for Grace, it’s good for Boyd, too. She can see it in his eyes, in his entranced, blissful expression. A stray thought manages to push its way through the deep well of sensation: perhaps it was always going to come to this. Perhaps all the sparks, all the banter, flirtation and squabbling were always going to lead them here. Here, to the overpowering, carnal moment when there’s no conflict, no games, just sheer pleasure.

Grace sets the pace. Slow and steady, working his body for her own reward. Boyd grasps her hips, provides additional momentum without stealing the initiative. It’s good. It’s very, very good. A touch faster, and his knees lift, allowing his feet to brace against the mattress, giving him the leverage to provide a deep counter-stroke that hits the right places to push her into a faster, hungrier rhythm. From nowhere, she’s riding him harder and faster than she ever consciously imagined or intended, but it’s so damned good that –

The rattle of the door handle makes her head snap round in the same instant as the rest of her body freezes. Time slows to a crawl, the bedroom door opening in slow motion to reveal a slim, male figure.

Erskine.

Grace sees the exact moment that he realises what – and _who_ – he’s disturbed. The exact moment of cold horror when the colour drains from his face and his eyes go almost completely round.

“Fuck’s sake!” Boyd’s voice, loud and angry in the small room. It’s followed by a furious bark of, “Out! Get out!”

Without a word, Erskine takes to his heels, slamming the door shut behind him.

Shocked, and suddenly very sober, Grace can’t do anything but stare at the closed bedroom door. Still frozen, she can’t form a single word.

“Forget about him,” Boyd commands. “Grace…”

She finds her voice. “Oh my _God_ …”

“ _Grace_ …” Wild. Almost desperate.

“Boyd…”

He lifts her away from him, the action seeming to require no effort at all, and he’s off the bed and halfway to the door before she’s really aware of it. The heavy old bolt that she never uses slams home with a harsh scrape of metal, and then he’s on his way back, expression dark, cock still hard. All notion of ardour stripped away, she shakes her head at his approach, “No.”

“Yes,” Boyd says. He pins her down before she can squirm away, kisses her with the kind of force she knows will leave her lips feeling bruised for hours. Hands on her breasts, he squeezes hard enough to make her whimper – not from fear or discomfort – and then he moves his mouth to her neck, nipping and kissing with a heated impatience that catches hold of her and somehow manages to drag her back into the wicked pleasure of just minutes before. No longer resisting – no longer _wanting_ to resist – Grace scores lines down his back with her nails. It makes him swear and bite her harder.

She understands him, then. Just for a fleeting moment. Understands his angry, stubborn heart. Understands so much about who and what he is… and then the knowledge is lost in the myriad sensations screaming through just about every nerve she thinks she possesses.

“Yes?” he growls again, but this time it’s a question and a deliberate handing back of power.

“Yes,” Grace tells him, and there’s no part of her that doesn’t mean it.

He enters her in a single solid thrust, and her fingertips drive hard into his shoulder muscles in response. This time it’s Boyd who sets the pace, and it’s neither slow nor gentle. She clings to him, lost in the heat and the sweat and the passion, the horrified part of her mind still reeling from the unexpected, unwelcome intrusion crowded out by the strength and intensity of the sensations ripping through her body.

She comes first, the speed and force with which it hits her far more astonishing than anything else so far. She cries out, barely aware of it until Boyd muffles the sound simply by kissing her until the shudders rushing through her body become a trembling ghost of themselves. Grace is still panting and shaking when he loses his rhythm in a series of hard, uncoordinated thrusts and then goes absolutely rigid above her, his eyes tightly closed, his jaw locked, and the tendons in his neck standing out stark and clear. The total immobility lasts only a few seconds, and then he collapses down onto her, his chest heaving.

As the satisfied torpor bleeds away, anxiety and shame are quick to return. Grace pushes at his shoulder, desperate to bring him back to cold, brutal reality. To the harsh place where they were quite literally caught in the act. Sharper than she intends, she snaps, “Boyd. _Boyd_.”

He lifts his head, peers at her with hazy confusion. “Mm…?”

“ _Erskine_.”

It breaks the very last threads of the powerful erotic spell.

He sits up far too rapidly, causing them to wince as their bodies roughly separate. He bats impatiently at the unruly lock of hair that falls across his forehead, says, “Fuck.”

“What the hell are we going to do now?” Grace demands. Sobriety is a cold-hearted bitch of a thing.

“He won’t say anything,” Boyd assures her, sounding a fraction over-confident. “Poor bastard was probably just looking for the damned bathroom.”

“He saw us, Boyd. He _saw_ us.”

“I know, I know.” An impatient shake of the head. “I’ll talk to him.”

Just the idea of it makes her wince. “Oh, God…”

“Well, what do you _want_ me to do, then?” he demands with a glare. “I can’t exactly boot him out of the unit because he caught us – ”

“Please don’t say it,” Grace interrupts, sitting up and glancing round for something – anything – to cover herself with. There’s nothing within reach. Rather pointlessly, she folds her arms across her chest instead.

“ – screwing,” Boyd finishes, ignoring her angry scowl of disapproval.

“Let me talk to him,” she suggests after a moment, though just the vaguest thought of the inevitable embarrassment fills her with quiet horror. “I’m sure I could – ”

“Grace,” he says, sounding unusually quiet and patient, “it’s not the end of the bloody world, okay? You know Erskine – he can’t bring me a cup of tea without wanting to stand to attention and attempting to salute. He’s _not_ going to tell anyone. Okay?”

She’s not convinced. “Maybe we should – ”

“No,” Boyd interjects, cutting across her. Then, less gruff, “This is your _home_ , it’s the bloody weekend, and we’re both consenting adults, for Christ’s sake. What happened was… unfortunate, but – ”

“Unfortunate!” she snorts, beginning to understand what the very edge of hysteria must feel like.

“Yes, _unfortunate_.” He shifts position, adds, “I’m not happy about it either, but just be bloody grateful it wasn’t _Spencer_. Or Frankie. Or Mel, come to that. How hard do you think that would’ve been for us to live down?”

“I’ll never be able to look him in the eye again,” she complains, but reminded of the horrendous alternatives, she’s beginning to accept that he’s right – Erskine is serious and taciturn, and he’s not a great socialiser, at least not at work. He’s also young and easily discomfited. Yes, it’s extremely unlikely that he will ever say a single word about what he saw to anyone.

“Besides,” Boyd adds, now sitting on the edge of the bed, “I’m willing to bet he’s more embarrassed than you are.”

“ _We_ are,” Grace corrects.

He shakes his head. “I’m not embarrassed. I wasn’t the idiot who opened the wrong bloody door at the wrong bloody moment, was I?”

It’s all a defiant, belligerent front, she realises. Typical of the man. Bellow and bluster until the problem he doesn’t want to face just somehow goes away. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t. Not knowing what to say in reply, she settles on a silent, noncommittal shrug and settles her gaze on the rumpled bedcovers beneath her.

When Boyd speaks again, his voice is much softer. “Look, Grace, I don’t regret it, and neither should you.”

Risking an upward glance, she says, “We were drunk, Boyd.”

“A little,” he agrees, “and now we’re not. Doesn’t change anything, does it?”

Not sure that she’s right about what she thinks he means, Grace asks, “Such as?”

He doesn’t reply immediately, subjecting her to a long, searching look first. Then he says, “It was going to happen eventually, don’t you think? You and me?”

“Maybe,” she says, not willing to admit how close his words are to her earlier thoughts.

“’But’?” he prompts, choosing entirely the wrong moment to be unusually perceptive.

“No ‘buts’,” she tells him quickly, knowing that it’s not the time for protracted discussion. All sorts of contradictory thoughts and questions are whirling through her mind, making her think about things that always seemed impossible, a long, long way out of her grasp.

Apparently satisfied, Boyd nods. “Good. Come on, we’d better get dressed and rejoin the party before someone else comes blundering up the damned stairs.”

Pulling a face, she wonders if he’s really as calm as he seems. He stands up and stretches, the brief and obvious play of the muscles under his skin momentarily diverting her attention. He’s not a young man, but then she’s not a young woman, either. They are what they are, both of them. And if… No. No, she’s not going to think about that. He stoops, collects stray items of clothing – his and hers – from the floor and tosses them onto the bed. Catches her watching him and offers her a slight, almost hesitant smile. It banishes some of the gathering shadows from her mind, that tentative smile. Maybe… maybe things are going to be all right, after all. She reaches for her clothes, wishing they had more time.

“Team building,” Boyd says with a grimace, pulling up his trunks and then stepping back into his trousers. “Next time you suddenly decide it’s just what we need to raise morale, let’s just go carting, or paint-balling, or something, hm?”

Shaking the creases out of her clothes, she says, “Agreed. _Much_ safer.”

The deep dark eyes glitter at her for a moment. “Not half as much fun, though.”

“Go and find Erskine,” she tells him, refusing to acknowledge the fluttering in her stomach, “while I try to make myself halfway presentable. And do _try_ not to scare the living daylights out of him.”

Buttoning his shirt, Boyd says, “It’s all _your_ fault, you know.”

Surprised and indignant, she retorts, “What? Why?”

“You’re the one who demanded to see my war wounds.” His grin is insufferably smug.

He’s just so… Unable to think of an appropriate word, Grace points at the door. “Go.”

With a snort Boyd does as he’s told. But not before giving her a sly wink that somehow manages to set her pulse racing again.

_\- the end -_


End file.
